


Loser Takes the Couch

by withoutaplease



Series: Boyfriend Sam [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 21:36:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4977367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withoutaplease/pseuds/withoutaplease
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While out hunting vamps, reader runs into Sam and Dean Winchester.  Against her better judgment, she invites them back to her apartment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loser Takes the Couch

**Author's Note:**

> Pairing: Sam x female reader, Dean’s around too
> 
> Warnings: Smut. Minimal plot as an excuse for smut. Seriously, smut.
> 
> Author’s note: This is my first fic in like a decade, so I might be rusty. It started out as just an exercise to practice writing in the second person, and turned into this. This is trash. I am trash.

          You’ve been sitting behind the wheel for the last fifteen minutes, listening to the crickets chirp and staring at the car parked in front of you, trying to decide what to do. The temperature’s dropping quickly, which doesn’t really bother you. The sun is also dropping quickly, and that kind of does. You’ve been tracking this little pack of vamps for weeks, and if you have any hope at all of getting the drop on them, it’s got to be while the sunlight is still on your side. Now, in other words. You turn your machete over and over in your hands, wondering briefly if you’ve made a mistake. Not about the cabin down the back country road; you’re certain it’s their nest. What you wonder is if you were doomed the moment you saw the black ’67 Impala and didn’t turn around.

  
          You were a teenager when you stumbled upon your aunt’s journals, and she quickly realized you were clever enough that she couldn’t bullshit it away. Vampires, werewolves, ghosts, demons – all of it was real, and most of it needed killing. Once you proved you were skilled with a knife and a quick draw with a gun, she started taking you out on hunting trips. You stayed in your own area, mostly, taking care of the odd beastie that would show up near your hometown and threaten your neighbours and loved ones. _No need to go looking for trouble_ , she told you, _when there’s enough to go around right here at home. Besides, you’ve got a family to think of._

  
There were a few other pearls of wisdom she passed along to you about hunting, mainly concerned with keeping yourself alive and in one piece. Those were the words that were running through your mind now, flipping over and over like the knife in your hands.

          _Don’t walk into a fight unless you know you can win._ Your eyes were still staring straight forward, aimed at the Impala but no longer seeing it.

          _Keep your weapon within reach at all times._ What you saw instead was the image in your mind, branded there forever, of these same fucking vamps tearing her apart while you ran for your life.

          _And for God’s sake, whatever you do, stay the hell away from the Winchesters._

* * * * *

          You’ve made it maybe fifty feet into the brush when you hear a twig snap behind you. You’re about to whip the machete around and remove a vampire appendage or two when you hear a second sound: a gun being cocked. Rolling your eyes, you drop the knife and raise your hands. “Shouldn’t you be more concerned about where the pack is right now?” you say in a low voice, “They’re probably waking up, and they can probably hear us.”

          “Shut up,” the voice behind the gun whispers curtly, followed by “turn around.”

          You turn slowly to face the voice, and even with the glare of the setting sun in your eyes, you recognize the two tall shapes in front of you. “Dean, put it away,” Sam says, already tucking his own gun back into his belt, “she’s okay.” Dean appraises you a moment longer, then lowers his gun as well.

          “I’m picking up my knife now,” you say, reaching slowly down while keeping eye contact with Dean. You feel better with your weapon in your hand, and you’re keenly aware of the minutes ticking by while you waste time with this nonsense.

          “What the hell are you doing out here?” Dean asks, turning his gaze from you to the shadows lengthening in the trees.

          “Me?” you reply, a little more defiantly than you intend, “I live here. Shouldn’t you be off somewhere saving Creation or something? What do you want with a couple of small-town vamps?”

          Sam chuckles softly. “You’re a hunter,” he says, a little incredulously. “You’re here for the nest. I didn’t know there were any active hunters around here.”

          “I’ve never heard of you,” Dean mutters.

          “Well, I’ve sure as hell heard of you. You know, some of us still try to keep a low profile,” you retort.

          “It’s reckless to be out here alone,” Sam says, “even if you are a hunter.”

          “It’s personal,” you reply, matter-of-factly. “And besides, I’m not alone anymore.” You give the boys a cocky grin before turning toward the cabin and marching forward. You hope it was enough to mask the tremor in your voice and the hitch in your breath. You’ve never taken on a pack of vamps alone before, even a small one like this. Sam is right, it is reckless. And the truth is, when Sam and Dean Winchester start following a step behind you, you are incredibly relieved, even as you worry what you’re getting yourself into.

          “Well then, Buffy, lead the way,” Sam says with a grin.

* * * * *

          It’s full dark when the three of you emerge from the woods, covered in filth, smeared with blood, and more or less whole. The boys are laughing between themselves, and you feel lighter than you have in months. Dusting those vampires won’t bring your aunt back to you, but you feel like you’ve done right by her, and that’s something. And, as much as you hate to admit it, things probably wouldn’t have gone your way if Sam and Dean hadn’t happened to be out there tracking the same pack. Besides, at two kills you bested their one each, and how many hunters can say they outdid the Winchesters?

          In fact, you’re feeling so good that your aunt’s advice is the furthest thing from your mind as you stop before getting into your car to invite them to keep right on following you; there’s hot showers and cold beer at your place, and they can rock-paper-scissors over the spare bedroom. Loser takes the couch. Dean whispers something to Sam, and Sam’s eyes linger on you for a moment before he smiles and whispers back to him. They readily agree, and glancing in your rear-view every so often, you can see them singing along to whatever’s on their radio as you make your way home.

* * * * *

          Two rounds of beer and two pizzas later, the three of you are sitting around your kitchen table laughing like old friends. Sam and Dean have a lot of questions for you, about your aunt, about how you became a hunter, about what it’s like to try to balance a life outside of hunting. They don’t say much about themselves, and you don’t pry. Fact is, you don’t have a whole lot of people you can be honest with, and you’re enjoying the company. Somewhere around the edges, you are also enjoying the way Sam keeps seeking eye contact with you when he laughs, or finding reasons to touch your arm, or brushing his leg against yours and leaving it there.

          One more round in, Dean starts looking at his watch and yawning. “You said something about a spare room?” he asks.

          “First door on your right,” you answer, pointing down the hallway. “You two can fight over it. I’ll go get some bedding to make up the couch.” You get up to find clean linens, glancing once over your shoulder out of curiosity. Dean’s back is to you, but you can see Sam smirking at him, plain as day. Sure enough, they’re playing rock-paper-scissors.

          Sam chooses paper.

* * * * *

          You’re gone all of three minutes, but when you emerge from your bedroom with an armload of sheets and pillows, the door to the guest room is already closed. Sam is alone in your kitchen, clearing plates and bottles off your table. “Should’ve gone with rock,” you tease, dropping the bedding on your couch and then moving to join Sam at the kitchen sink. Sam laughs softly. “And you don’t have to do that,” you continue. “You’re my guest.”

          “Least I can do,” he says, filling up the sink and starting to clean the dishes. “It’s good to be invited to somebody’s home. It beats a motel, or the backseat of the car. It feels . . . normal.” You grab a dish towel and stand ready to dry. “And,” he says, hesitating just a little, “I thought maybe if I helped, you’d stay up with me a little longer. “ He cocks his eyebrows at you a bit as he says it, and there’s mischief in his grin. You laugh and glance away quickly, but you think he probably notices your cheeks darken anyway. “That’s a yes?” he says when you face him again, holding your gaze and biting his lower lip the tiniest bit.

          You laugh again, more out of nerves than anything. “Yes, Sam, I will wash my dishes with you.”

          “That’s a start,” he replies, turning his attention back to the sink.

          You work in silence for a few moments, in which it becomes apparent to you that your heartbeat is thudding hard in your ears. _He’s going to make a move_ , you think, you _hope_ , and then you realize you had it right in the first place. You were doomed the moment you didn’t turn your car around.

          _Stay the hell away from the Winchesters._

          “Hey,” he says, turning to you and putting his hand on your shoulder, “where’d you go?”

          You realize the sink is empty and you’ve been standing there vacantly with the damp dishcloth dangling from your hand. He doesn’t let go of you, and the look on his face is concern, not flirtation. Your first instinct is to laugh it off, but all of a sudden you are bone tired. You’re tired of laughing everything off, tired of acting tough, and tired of resisting. There’s something in those damned green eyes of his that makes you want to give in to all of it. You take a deep breath, unsure what’s going to come out of your mouth when you open it to speak. “She’d be so disappointed in me right now,” you come out with, at last.

          His other hand on your other shoulder. “What the – what are you talking about? Your aunt? You were fantastic in there! I’m pretty sure I’d be short a few pints of blood right now if you hadn’t been so badass with that machete.”

          You smile ruefully. “Not that, Sam,” you look down at yourself and then up at him, less than an arm’s length between you. “This.”

          He looks confused for a second, then he quickly takes his hands off you and steps back. “Oh. I’m sorry,” he says, shaking his head and avoiding your eyes, “I thought you wanted . . .”

          “I do want. That’s the problem. Do you want to know what the other hunters say about you and your brother, Sam? ‘The best of the best,’ they say, ‘but don’t get close to them.’ They say it’s the quickest way to get hurt.” He looks like you slapped him. “She told me to keep away from you. I guess she must’ve figured that I wouldn’t be able to resist.”

          He sighs, and for a moment you think this is it, that you’ve blown it, that you’ll go to your room and close the door and spend the rest of the night trying to convince yourself that you made the right call. Then he closes the space between you in two strides, wrapping his arms around your waist and setting your heart pounding again. “Is that what you think I want?” he says, almost at a whisper, so close you can feel his breath on your face. “To hurt you?” You part your lips to answer, but before you can speak he’s brushing his own against them, feather light, instead. “Believe me,” he says, as you’re suddenly aware of every inch of his body that’s pressed against yours, “that’s the last thing I want to do.”

          He waits there, lips hovering over yours, to see what you’ll do. A second ticks by, and another. After the third second it’s too much, you can’t stand it, and you close the gap. It’s only a kiss, but you feel it everywhere: swimming in your head, slamming in your chest, throbbing between your legs. You reach up to lace your fingers into the long hair at the back of his neck, and when you pull, just a little, he moans softly into your mouth. His tongue slides past your teeth, and it’s like he’s trying to tell you everything he’s ever held back. Like he could swallow you whole and you’d thank him for it. He finally breaks off the kiss, and the two of you are standing in the harsh light of your bare kitchen bulb, still gripping each other tightly, heaving to catch your breath.

          “If you don’t want to do this,” he says, keeping his voice even with some effort, “please tell me now.” He’s hard in his jeans, and you can’t help yourself grinning as you press yourself harder against him. He closes his eyes and bites his lip. He waits. He’s going to make you say it.

          “Yes,” you whisper. “I want this.”

          “Good,” he says, and in one quick motion he’s lifting you up onto the counter and grinding himself between your legs. You gasp, and now he’s the one grinning, wickedly. “Because I’ve been thinking about fucking you since the minute I saw you.” You half groan, half whimper, and it’s swallowed up in an instant with his lips on yours again. He kisses you so hard you’re fighting for breath, and your hips pump forward with a mind of their own, searching for friction. Your fingers fumble at his shirt buttons. He takes his hands off you for a moment to take over, efficiently tossing his flannel and t-shirt onto the floor before reaching for your tank top and pulling it up over your head. He runs his hands up the sides of your waist and then slips them around to unclasp your bra. He steps back slightly to admire your breasts, then he’s taking a hard nipple into his mouth and sucking so fiercely that you yelp out loud.

          “Shhhh . . .” he whispers, but he’s laughing, and you’re laughing, and you’re both smiling between kisses as you savour the sensation of his chest pressed against your breasts, skin against skin. “Bedroom?” he asks breathily, and you nod without breaking lip contact. He picks you up from the counter and carries you down the hallway, your legs wrapped around him, as if you weigh nothing at all. You vaguely note snoring coming from the spare room but the sound is snuffed out when Sam kicks your bedroom door shut behind him and tosses you down onto your bed.

          He’s on top of you in an instant, and his mouth finds your nipple again as he catches the other one between his thumb and fingers. He knows it’s a tease and he keeps it up until you’re panting and your back is arching and you’re pulling at his hair. When he does break away it’s to cover your stomach in kisses, trailing his tongue along the sensitive places along your sides and below your navel. He undoes the button on your jeans and follows the zipper down with his tongue. He’s pulling your jeans down infuriatingly slowly, pausing to kiss each new patch of skin he exposes until finally there’s nothing between his mouth and your throbbing, aching clit except for a thin film of damp cotton.

          He grins up at you hungrily but doesn’t touch you there, not yet. He wrestles your jeans off your legs and then comes back up to kiss you again, one hand holding you by the hair and the other hand sliding down toward your pussy but stopping just short and resting there. You try to buck up your hips to meet his hand but he stops you with one of his legs, effectively pinning you there. He kisses you long and deep and then stops to study your face, screwed up in an expression of need and frustration. “Sam, please!” you say, trying and failing to buck your hips up into him again.

          “Please, what?” he says, smirking almost imperceptibly. He must see the fury that flashes briefly in your eyes, because he laughs and nips at your lower lip.

          “Please touch me,” you say, straining one more time to move your hips, to feel him effortlessly hold you down. “I’m going to lose my fucking mind.”

           “You might,” he says softly, right into your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. And then his hand is finally, finally sliding down into your panties, and you’re so wet that his fingers glide over your clit and up inside you without any resistance at all. He runs his thumb slowly up and down over your clit, sending tiny shocks up into your belly, and you squeeze down onto the two fingers lazily working themselves in and out of you, trying to feel as much as you can. “Damn,” he remarks, as you’re gasping and squirming.

          “Sam!” you plead again, nearly shouting, and he’s shushing you again but he releases your hair and your thigh and he moves himself back down the length of your torso.

          “All right, beautiful,” he says as he slips your panties down over your hips and positions his face between your legs. “I can’t watch you suffer anymore.” At first he licks you slowly, lapping up from your entrance to the tip of your clit in long, flat strokes, tasting you. You try to relax and breathe, but every nerve in your body is screaming at you. You’re trembling. He shifts to drape one arm over your pelvis, holding you in place, while his other hand is slipping two fingers back inside you. He watches your face as he crooks his fingers inside you, harder and faster with each pass. You moan and grab onto the rungs of your headboard, bracing yourself. Then suddenly his tongue is flicking hard and fast, over and over against your clit, and it’s not like shocks anymore but like _fire_. Soon your thighs are shaking and your hips would be bucking wildly if he wasn’t pressing hard to hold you down. There’s no stopping your cries anymore and he doesn’t try, he doesn’t let up at all, until his tongue and his fingers are way too much and stars explode across your vision and he’s taking you gently but firmly through contraction after contraction of your orgasm.

          After it passes and you catch your breath, you look down to see him smiling the most precious smile of accomplishment, and you can’t help smiling back. You reach for him, and he climbs back up to kiss you, his mouth salty-sweet with the taste of you. “Better?” he whispers against your lips.

          “Getting there,” you answer, as you reach down to unbutton his jeans and find his cock straining harder than ever against his zipper. He helps you push them down over his ass, boxer-briefs sliding down right along with, and after he kicks them off his legs you can’t help but steal a glance that turns into a gawk. He is every bit as large as the bulge in his jeans suggested, and swollen almost purple. “Damn,” you repeat. He grins self-consciously and sinks back down onto you, his cock hard and hot pressed into your thigh. He kisses you again, over and over until your hips start moving in rhythm again and the ache returns to your pussy.

          He pauses, and you think you can feel him trembling a little himself. “Umm, do you have –“

          “Condoms?” you ask, “of course. Don’t move.” You squirm underneath him, straining to reach your nightstand drawer and pull out the strip of rubbers that you don’t get to use nearly as often as you’d hoped when you bought them. You hand him all six and he chuckles.

          “Probably not going to need quite so many,” he jokes, tearing the first packet open with his teeth.

          “You might,” you say playfully, waiting impatiently as he slips the condom on.

          He laughs, but it sounds like a growl and when he falls back down on top of you it feels like a pounce. He looks you right in the eye as he as he slides himself into you, and when your mouth opens in a gasp, he fills it with his tongue. He kisses you long and deep while he fucks you the same way, setting a sensuous pace. He holds himself up on one arm while the other hand roams over you, through your hair, over your breast, under your ass to push himself even further inside you. You moan when he starts dragging his pelvic bone against your clit with each thrust. He moans when you squeeze yourself around his cock and don’t let go. You pump your hips as hard as you can against him, trying to get him to pick up speed, but he’s in control and he’s in no hurry. You stop fighting it and wrap your legs around him, letting him take you along for the ride.

          The tension in your core builds up agonizingly slowly, but it’s building, and with each measured thrust you get closer to the brink, hovering tantalizingly just out of reach. Sam must sense the change in your response because he starts pressing himself harder against your clit, lingering longer at each pass. Your hands reach for something to grab onto, and they settle on his hair, damp now with sweat. He groans as you pull, but he doesn’t break his rhythm. He watches your face again as he pushes you closer and closer, and when he whispers, “Are you gonna come for me again, baby?” it’s like the magic words. It feels like it comes from deep inside you, slow, strong contractions that make you moan low and make your eyes roll up into your head. And still he doesn’t stop, keeps pushing until you’re so sensitive it almost hurts, only faltering when he starts to spasm himself. You come to your senses in time to see his eyes squeeze shut and his jaw drop open, and you grip him with all the strength you have left until he’s through twitching inside you. He kisses you softly, affectionately, then rolls off you and collapses on the other side of the bed.

          You both lay still for a minute, panting. When he catches his breath, he wraps you in his arms and pulls you close to him. “All that just to avoid sleeping on the couch?” you say, and you both laugh. You lay your head on his chest and listen to his heartbeat until it falls into a slow and steady rhythm that lulls you to sleep.

* * * * *

          When you open your eyes, you see sunlight streaming faintly though the window. You reach for your phone to check the time; it’s not on your nightstand where you usually leave it. You roll over and reach the in the other direction to find that Sam’s not where you left him, either. He’s sitting at the end of the bed, dressed, with a phone in each hand. He notices you’re awake and smiles at you. “You really should have a password on your phone,” he says.

          “Hey!” You lunge at him when you realize one of those phones is yours, and then quickly cover yourself with your sheet when you notice you’re still naked. He chuckles and hands it back to you. Looking it over, you see that he’s texted himself from your phone.

          “Now I’ve got your number, and you have mine. I hope that’s okay.” You’re about to tell him _of course it is_ when you hear a car horn honking outside your apartment. Dean, in the Impala. “I’ve gotta go,” he says, and it’s almost an apology.

          “I know,” you say, trying to sound as though it doesn’t bother you at all. It’s not your most convincing performance.

          “Is it all right if I call you the next time I’m in town?” he says, standing up.

          “Yeah,” you say. “I hope you do.”

          “And you call me anytime, if you’re ever in trouble, or whatever.”

          “I will.”

          He takes your cheek in his hand and kisses you goodbye, and you’re frantically trying to memorize it, in case it never happens again. The kiss lingers, until another blast of the car horn breaks the spell. As he walks away you tell him, “Stay alive out there, Sam.”

          He stops in your doorway to give you one last smile. “You stay alive out there too, Buffy.” He winks. It’s cheesy. You laugh.

          And then he’s gone.


End file.
